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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669581">WhiteClaw86</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarkingBard/pseuds/BarkingBard'>BarkingBard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Armie's Arse, Charmie comments, M/M, Metafiction, Questioning motives, Swimming Pool, Tea Bagging, Theories, Twentynine Palms, Whiteclaw - Freeform, abusive language, balls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:36:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669581</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarkingBard/pseuds/BarkingBard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>BarkingBard receives a series of unsolicited messages from WhiteClaw86 and banter ensues.</p><p>Trigger warning: Directed abusive language.</p><p>Note: This is fiction and has little resemblance to anyone living or dead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oliver &amp; Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman, Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. That arse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> I like your take on the story but are you sure Oliver would have said “Hey buddy, my eyes are up here” as he walked away from Elio who is ogling his ass? Oliver was more cerebral than overt.</p><p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> Oh come on matey… Oliver loves being eye-fucked by Elio, just as much as we love reading it. Obviously, I give him much more credit at handling a lusty Elio than you do.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Lusty is one thing and crass is another, and that’s something Oliver is not. He would never be so blatant, particularly so early in their tale. Just a thought to take onboard for the next chapter.</p><p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> You sound like you have some ‘pretty firm’ ideas about Oliver and his motivations, but also seem to be taking this a little bit too personally.</p><p>If you really want to get into this: I may be a little ‘out of time’ with that statement but I don’t recall what the hip comebacks were for being ‘perved on’ in 1983. I was eleven. And you, my friend, weren’t even thought of, if ‘86 is your birth year. Or are you a ‘Get smart’ fan? Sorry for presuming you are young and sweet.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong>Indeed 1986 was my birth year… and I am a ‘Get Smart’ fan, “Would you believe it!” I am not so young or sweet, pal.</p><p>*** weeks later ***</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Bardy, don’t you think that you have wasted too many words describing Oliver/Armie’s ass.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> Whitey pull your claws in! Use your words. What is your <em><strong>specific</strong></em> issue this time?</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Patronizing much?</p><p>You wrote… <em>‘His firm, round, peach-like ass made the water pool in his lower back before it spilled joyously down his seam. His wet and shaggy, blonde hair, now turned dark, incessantly dripped water onto the floor, where it rushed towards the drain.’</em></p><p>And not a couple of paragraphs before you start up again, <em>‘The perfect peach of his firm mound of an ass glistened with the slick of our last rut.’</em></p><p>I think you are obsessed; do you think you should get out more? Maybe take up a sport or a hobby or find something else to do with your time other than fixating on this innocent man’s rump. It can’t be that good!</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> Mr Claw, I would thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head and don’t blaspheme about Armie/Oliver’s arse, in case it hears you and gets a complex.</p><p>NB. I know that I jump between describing Armie and Oliver’s arse but I can’t help it. Those two are now eternally bound together in my mind.</p><p>But to answer your question in a roundabout way, the Greeks sailed across the known world to hold siege for ten years because of a beautiful woman. Do you have a spare decade to sit and listen to me wax lyrical about the ultimate perfection that is Armie Hammer’s arse? In simpler terms that you may understand… Yes, it is worthy of ten years of war.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> I will have to take your word on it, buddy. Obviously, I am not as invested as you are.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> You appear quite invested and seem to have numerous theories yourself, but I am always happy to talk about Armie or Oliver to anyone. In fact, it’s one of my main hobbies.</p><p>To reiterate my feelings about his bum that you are having trouble understanding, let me describe it in a different way for you.</p><p>
  <em>Imagine relaxing in a deck chair somewhere in Northern Italy with a large glass of Lambrusco. You have just eaten an enormous, heart-stopping amount of pasta and the world is at peace. Your view is fixed on the rolling Italian hills, covered in a mercurial wheat field, shining in the golden sun… perfect and resplendent and burning your retinas. </em>
</p><p>Looking at his arse is exactly like that for me.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> LOL!! You have overblown your similes. I expect to see more of that sort of nonsense in your next chapter.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> Well at least you are still planning on reading my illiterate drivel. ***Pumps fist in the air*** Please make sure you click the ‘Kudos’ button.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Maybe you could give his ‘Arse’ a rest (pun intended) and focus on another part of his anatomy.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> His crystal blue eyes have featured regularly. His rippling stomach and his hairy chest are often referenced. His big strong hands and warm, embracing arms frequently tug at us and his sturdy, freakishly long legs appear as they flop over Timmy/Elio’s shoulders. What else would you like to read about?</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> What about his feet?</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> I must stop you there. I have said this before and I will say it again, as you obviously haven’t been playing along at home. Like Dorian Gray, with his putrefying painting in the attic, Armand Douglas Hammer’s feet should not be discussed in polite society. They are definitely possessed and grotesque and have somehow become the repository of all the evils and nastiness he has committed in his short life.</p><p>Do we know if Armie has committed crimes against humanity? Because this could be the only explanation for those evil fucking feet.</p><p>How is it possible that so spectacular a creature could propel himself through the world on those heinously grizzled and gnarled lumps of flesh and bone?</p><p>Thank all the gods and goddesses for making it customary in our society to wear shoes. Oh, but that doesn’t stop him flaunting his paired ugliness. My mind begins to melt every time he is interviewed and they miraculously appear, resting nonchalantly on any surface in front of him. I want to scream, “Oi, Island boy get those hideous things off the furniture!”</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Wow, you really are <strong>bitter AF</strong>. Surely there are much worse things to be upset about on the human body.</p><p>We can’t help but be continually confronted with your love of his ass, but what about his family jewels? Nobody really likes to look at the male ball sack. I don’t think anyone ever would say ‘You know what’s sexy? Testicles!’</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> I can say, hand on heart that I do. I like how they look and feel and how they move of their own accord and how they react when someone licks them. I think you need someone to lick your balls <em>‘stat’</em>!</p><p>
  <em>“Barkingbard grabs a handful of WhiteClaw86’s perfect globes that are loosely suspended in their sack and kisses them sweetly. The course hairs tickle the other man’s nose as he pushes his face into the solid groin. A deep, satisfied groan erupts from WhiteClaw’s lips.”</em>
</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Ease up on my balls, Bard. I am just saying this guy is a human being with thoughts and feelings and you can’t just treat him like a piece of meat.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> Yes, I am the first to admit that I love to ogle at him, but I also rejoice at both Oliver’s and Armie’s minds. I always write them with their own voice and thoughts and superior intelligence, even though evidence to the contrary might have come to light.</p><p>I think my stories have been much kinder and have cast them, particularly Armie, in more glowing terms than Armie’s present narrative and the one fabricated by his team.</p><p>Why the hell doesn’t he employ me to write his press releases? I would make him much more thoughtful than the ‘freshly single man about town’ PR fiasco playout at their hands.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Have you considered that you might not be helping him with all the shit you are writing and putting out there?</p><p>Maybe he just wants to live a quiet life and be left in peace. He is partway through an emotionally arduous major life event, trying to close the door on his marriage with his sanity intact while not fucking up his two kids too much.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> I agree that may be what he wants, and I just hope that it is his priority.</p><p>With luck, he can build a healthy new relationship with his soon-to-be ex-wife and continue to spend as much time as possible with his kids.</p><p>That said, scooting around various cities with an ever-increasing number of ‘knock-off’ versions of his ex is not doing him any favours. Could you imagine him introducing ‘Vespa Barbie’ to Luca Guadagnino? Not even Armie<em> ‘Fucking’</em> Hammer has balls big enough for that!</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Fuck, you are a wanker, Bard. For a man who professes to adore Armie, you are a rather harsh critic of him. You obviously read too much of the gutter press and blind gossip pages.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt;</strong> I resemble that ‘wanker’ statement.</p><p>I respect him as one of the finest actors of this age, with a very interesting backstory and booty. That doesn’t excuse him from the people he chooses to associate with or the problematic social media posts coming out of the women that he dates.</p><p>Next time you are chatting with him, maybe you could suggest he focus on his ‘Bros’ who lift him up rather than his ‘Hoes’ who drag him down and leave him looking like a privileged white boy with his dick in his hand.</p><p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt; </strong>Fuck off, cocksucker.</p><p><strong>Barkingbard&gt; </strong>What... are you saying 'cocksucker' like its a bad thing?!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Twentynine Palms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>BarkingBard takes a holiday to Twentynine Palms and meets some familiar folk.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>---The FAN-fic story---</strong>
</p>
<p>The secluded swimming pool was separated from the desert by a wall which acted as a kind of modesty shield and allowed me to privately drift off into my jetlag-induced stupor. Even under an umbrella the sun was too bright, so I utilised a GQ Magazine to shield my eyes. This particular issue of GQ contained the article in which Armie speaks fondly of this place and the renovations that he and his buddy, Ashton, were doing over the summer to restore the abandoned motel. Upon gleaning this information, I decided to begin my American holiday in the desert instead of the bright lights of LA.</p>
<p>After the 13-and-a-half-hour non-stop flight, I found myself quite flabbergasted to be behind the wheel, driving out of the LAX parking lot. The roads were busy but not “Italian freeway crazy” as I had been led to believe. I did my best from the wrong side of the car, not to mention driving on the wrong side of the road. I had galvanised myself to the task and deluded myself that I was doing a really good job while I drove as fast as I could to get this drive over and done with.</p>
<p>The two hour drive was uneventful, but ultimately rather dull and I was grateful to finally be standing in front of Twentynine Palms.</p>
<p>I was cordially greeted by the owner himself who then showed me around. My room was a tidy, if not slightly ‘boho chic’ space. It was perfect for my needs and the bed called to me, but I had to resist. I knew from experience that I shouldn’t sleep this early or I’d risk delaying my sleeping pattern realignment.</p>
<p>In true ‘traveller of the world’ or ‘Aussie piss-head abroad’ fashion, I asked where I could find a cold beer and Ashton gestured at the fully stocked bar fridge. He also mentioned that their motel bar would open later in the afternoon. Ignoring the nagging voice in the back of my head <em>‘This one drink will cost a fortune!’,</em> I rapidly opened the first can that I laid my hand on.</p>
<p>The can fizzed on opening and I almost instantly regretted my decision as I was engulfed in the subtle fragrance of lime.  It was then that I fully read the label, but I remained clueless. <em>What in hell’s name is ‘hard seltzer.’ </em>Whipping out my phone to find out what I was drinking, I was relieved to read the words, ‘Spiked water’. Thank the gods it wasn’t a health drink.</p>
<p>Bloody ‘WhiteClaw86’, the AO3 user that I had been bickering with for weeks, was partially responsible for my grabbing the can in the first place.  I would have expected him to have a more discerning palate for beer, but now I knew that, just like his messages, that little prick had ‘spiked’ my first drink in California.</p>
<p>My annoyance abated after I took a few more gulps of this odd, yet refreshing beverage. I made my way to a spot in the shade of an umbrella next to the pool and within a few minutes I began to unwind. I took a few deep breaths and uttered to the open space around me “This is heaven”. With the effects of the alcohol my mind began to drift and I slipped into an early afternoon doze.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The sound of clicking claws on the concrete stirred me from my slumber and before I could fully open my eyes I felt the presence of a wet nose in my ear, causing me to sit bolt upright. I immediately recognized this familiar stranger and reached out to touch the wiry coat of the Welsh Terrier, keeping him at arm’s length while I regained my composure.</p>
<p> “Steady on Archie, give a man a moment to wake up,” I explained to the excited beast.  Scratching his fur affectionately, but still keeping his face away from mine, I told him how handsome he was.</p>
<p>A booming voice announced its owner’s sudden arrival. “How do you know my dog?”</p>
<p>Though completely caught off guard I replied with all the nonchalance that I could muster, “Oh… hello. How’s it going, Armie?”</p>
<p>Too late I realised that the GQ magazine that had been shading my face was also displaying a black and white version of the Technicolor man towering over me. In my mild state of shock, I let it slip awkwardly to the ground while trying to hold his azure gaze.</p>
<p>If all the colour of all the swimming pools in the world were condensed into one pair of eyes, the colour could not compare to his heart-stoppingly blue eyes. I wanted nothing more than to dive into them and be lost forever.</p>
<p>He was as tall as you would expect, but slighter in build, causing his coral and white collared shirt to hang off of him. No one would ever describe me as petite, but his limbs and all-over gargantuan form stretched out before me and made me wonder how my limbs measured in comparison.</p>
<p>He waited for a moment while I sat speechless. My mouth opened and closed a few times, but words failed me and I noticed an amused smirk growing on his face. </p>
<p>Finally, I gathered my senses enough to say, “Sorry, my jetlag is kicking my arse right now,” trying to justify my vagueness.</p>
<p>“You need another drink. Come with me,” Armie said.</p>
<p>Who was I to argue with the big guy? I wandered into the hotel, trailing behind him like a second puppy. He leant over the smallish bar, pulled out two ‘White Claws’ and passed one to me. Obviously, ‘White Claw’ was going to become <em>the</em> drink of this holiday.</p>
<p>“Now explain to me how you know my dog,” he returned to his previous question.</p>
<p>“I might have stalked him online for a few years, and like Dame Judy, I can’t resist his charms, no matter where he tried to stick his nose or how stinky his breath is,” I said directly.</p>
<p>I was implying that I had more than mildly stalked Armie for years and was quite familiar with the speeches that he had given at various events. My attempt at levity was greeted with a nod. Armie now knew that I was one of ‘those’ people. I waited for him to beat a hasty retreat and was astounded when he pressed me for more detail with obvious, probing questions. I didn’t understand his reaction until I realised that we were talking about my favourite subject and his…. HIM.</p>
<p>He soon discovered the fact that I came from Adelaide, South Australia, the extent of my knowledge of his career and the movies I did and didn’t like, the names of the fan groups to which I belonged, and the existence of the 150,000 or so words of fan fiction that I had written over several stories. The alcohol loosened my tongue further than I would have liked and I told him about my annoyance with random readers who questioned my intentions in my portrayal of him in my stories. Thank the gods that I didn’t let slip the fact that I had dedicated thousands of words to his arse.</p>
<p>As if by command Armie bent over to retrieve a ball from under a chair and gifted me with a perfect view of his glorious rump. The meaty flesh pressed firmly into the loose-fitting shorts; the cut was perfection and showcased his greatest ‘ass’-et. The cinched waist emphasised the slim waist that contrasted with the sharp turn that his glutes took, stretching the cotton and having a hypnotic effect on me. I wanted to turn away to avoid exposing myself as the filthy perve that I am, but I couldn’t. In an attempt to free myself from the spell, I let my eyes wander down to his feet. I worship every inch of this man unconditionally, <em>except for those feet</em>. I could only imagine the ‘shitshow’ going on within those scruffy, faded espadrilles.</p>
<p>“You are looking at me funny,” Armie stated.</p>
<p>I turned away and blushed, “Sorry, don’t mind me. My brain is barely functioning… jetlag, as I said before.”</p>
<p>“Did you want to take a selfie or something??” he enquired.</p>
<p>“No! No, I don’t want to break our banter,” gesturing between us. “I am just happy to share some of your time,” I said earnestly.</p>
<p>To get the conversation started again, I shifted to a new topic. I was desperate to encourage him to talk more, but I knew this would require some finesse on my part because he would probably try to get me to do most of the talking. In his Variety Studio: Actors on Actors interview with Dakota Johnson he bombarded her with questions so that he could avoid answering questions himself. I can never forget how mesmerising it is listening to Armie constructing his sentences. His speech consists of a unique and surprising series of staccato phrases, comprised of no more than four or five words. His bass-baritone voice then bursts with a series of quick-fire words, punctuated by animated high-pitched squeaks of amusement.</p>
<p>“Oh, by the way, Adelaide still hasn’t forgiven you for trying to break that elevator after they refused to sell you shots on your birthday,” I flatly informed him and waited for his reaction.</p>
<p>He threw his head back and released the most endearing volley of genuine laughter. The guttural convulsions became so intense that I thought he was going to fall off his chair. Ashton arrived to check on us and bring us some snacks and another round of cans. He enquired if Armie was bothering me and I stated truthfully that he was possibly the best method for fighting my jetlag. I also admitted that if they kept up this pace of suppling me with cans of ‘White Claw’ I wouldn’t be able to fight it much longer.</p>
<p>I told Ashton how great his motel renovations were, which he refused to believe. He pointed out numerous problems and I told him that he was mad and that the rustic features and natural environments are what drew me to the place, not to mention Armie’s great Instagram videos.</p>
<p>Once Ashton left us, Armie took his now empty can, crushed it slightly to make it fit between the beams of the pergola, then retrieved my can and inserted it in a similar position. “What are you up to?” I enquired.</p>
<p>He placed a finger over his lips to shush me and chuckled as he took up his place on the sunbed next to mine.</p>
<p>“Ashton’s mind will melt when he finds them. I like to remind him that he needs me around to solve his problems in high places,” Armie chuckled to himself.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Later, after the sun had set, I was lying on the edge of the pool like a beached aquatic beast, one hand trailing in the water and the other scratching Archie’s belly. I listened to the two friends talk, their voices warm and familiar.</p>
<p>The conversation began to be punctuated by the sound of thunder in the distance and we were engulfed by the delightful smell of distant rain on parched earth. The reflection of the fairy lighting danced on the surface of the water, the continuous, twisted pattern bouncing across the white painted walls.</p>
<p>My body felt hypnotised, content, and heavy. The world around me spun a little, as my senses picked up the sharp green, smouldering scent of a joint. I looked at Armie, who was relaxing further into the night. He gestured and offered it to me, but I declined. I hadn’t touched that stuff since the 90’s and had no intention of changing that fact now. How much of an arse would I make of myself if I were stoned as well as drunk?</p>
<p>The glow of the red embers highlighted his features and revealed a darker, more manic glint in his eye. As I gazed at his perfect face I succumbed to the velvet darkness of slumber.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Sometime later I was awakened by the sensation of being manhandled, one pair of large hands under my arms and two more guiding my feet away from the pool.</p>
<p>I must have mumbled something at them because they replied, “It’s ok sleeping beauty, we are just putting you to bed.”</p>
<p>Falling into the soft embrace of the mattress, I was covered with a blanket and almost immediately drifted off to sleep.</p>
<p>I must have been dreaming because I thought I heard Armie say, “Sleep well… Bardy boy.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>I woke with a start and had no idea where I was. The moonlight pooled on the floor and the alien noises from the desert filled every corner of the darkened space. My bladder screamed for release. I had no choice but to leave the soft expanse of the bed and by the time I had padded back from the bathroom I was totally awake. I was exhausted, but sleep had left me at this point and I grumbled to myself about the horrors of jetlag that I was facing.</p>
<p>As I sipped from the glass of water that someone had thoughtfully left at my bedside, my mind drifted over all that had occurred in my first day in the States. Our time around the pool had been so unexpected and entertaining, but as I recollected our conversation, my inner critic reviewed each of my utterances and devised revamped responses and repartee.</p>
<p>I was at a total loss as to how I had been so lucky as to have spent the day with Armie, not to mention being carried to my bed by him and his close friend. If I had had more sense about myself, I could have made him an offer that he would have understood. Mind you, I couldn’t have handled the rejection nor faced his scorn the next morning. Who in their right mind would take up such an offer from a slurring Australian full of ‘spiked water’?  I felt we had a good matey connection and, given more time, could become good friends; however, given the fact that we were from completely different worlds, the idea of that happening was fanciful, but I still smiled at that thought.</p>
<p>My mind raced and, since there was no chance of getting back sleep, I felt around on the floor near the bed, found my phone, and opened it so that I could check in with the folk back home. It struck me as strange that my phone opened straight into my camera roll and as my eyes focused in on the first image my breath left me.  It was of me, asleep by the side of the pool, my slumbering form curved around Archie, who was also asleep. It was very sweet. Then I saw that the next image was of Ashton holding up his fingers in bunny ears behind my head. <em>That fucker!</em></p>
<p>The next frame was a standard ‘drunken selfie’ with Ashton and Armie laughing heartily, except that I was slumbering between them. Okay, I thought, this is escalating.</p>
<p>In the next picture Armie was bending over, looking back over his shoulder toward the camera, his much larger hand gripping mine, which was firmly planted on his shapely rump. Armie had a scandalised expression on his face, but he obviously found the situation hilarious. If he only knew how much time I spend fantasizing about this very situation.</p>
<p>When I came to the final frame I was stopped in my tracks. I sat in the darkened room, blinking into the light emanating from the screen, and tried to make sense of it. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.</p>
<p>Armie was crouched down close to my face, his mouth was moving as if he was saying something, so the quality of the image was terrible, but through the blur you could see that he had an enormous, cheeky grin on his face. His fingers pointed towards the fly of his shorts, which drew the eye to Armie’s resplendent balls, hanging low in the warm night air. The very same balls that I have waxed lyrical about innumerable times were just inches above my face. These were the balls that I had searched for ceaselessly, yet unsuccessfully, in the digitally edited footage of ‘Call Me by Your Name’. He looked like he was trying to ‘Teabag me!’ and can you fucken believe it, I was asleep for this momentous event. “<em>That mother-fucker!”</em></p>
<p>There is no sum of money that I wouldn’t pay to have awakened at that very second and seen Armie’s family jewels in my face. But oh, no! That didn’t happen. Instead, I slumbered peacefully through it.</p>
<p>The initial shock was slowly leaving me and being replaced by seething, white fury directed at my drunken, jetlagged brain that made me miss the sight of a lifetime. “Fucken Jetlag!” I said into the dark night.</p>
<p>As my blood cooled, though admittedly I was still staring at the pixelated image, my mind tried to piece together the snippets of their conversation that I heard through my White Claw haze to see if they had actually discussed Armie pretending to rub his testicles on my face. And then it hit me.</p>
<p>I thought I had misheard him, but Armie <em>did</em> call me ‘Bardy’ as he dropped me into bed. He knew exactly who I am, what I do with my spare time and how much I write about him in exceedingly sexualised ways. How many times have I described in detail Armie’s golden orb-like rump or explained how much a character enjoyed having his gonads in their face. Why did I have to sleep so heavily? “FUCK my life!”</p>
<p>Then an even worse thought crossed my mind. How in hell’s name would I be able to face him or Ashton in the morning?</p>
<p>
  <strong>--- Story Comments---</strong>
</p>
<p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Bardy, I am glad you liked the White Claw and I’m relieved that I proved myself to be less of a ‘little prick’ than you thought I was, but don’t you think you’re kidding yourself by assuming that Armie and his crew would welcome you with open arms if you descended on Ashton’s motel?</p>
<p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> Though I have corrected my opinion about how much of a ‘little prick’ you are, I believe you have failed to recognize how charming, engaging and witty I am.</p>
<p>I know that in this environment I can come across as a loud-mouthed, obnoxious maniac with a sharp tongue and crass demeanour, but in person I am a subtle mix of conversation and likeable mateyness. I am sure that Armie, Ashton and my new BFF, Archie, would be mesmerized by my beguiling charms. We would be inseparable in no time.</p>
<p> If you and I met, you would be lining up drinks on the bar for me just to keep our banter going.</p>
<p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> I don’t trust you, Bardy. You’d be dropping things and asking me to pick them up so that you could ogle my ass. Or worse… you’d start grabbing at my balls. Not a chance, you big old perve.</p>
<p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> I resemble that comment. But seriously, I am a fucking delight to be around.</p>
<p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Yeah, right! In your most recent instalment you are only able to pull yourself away from his ‘arse’ by focusing on his feet! You are Barking-<em>mad</em>, Bard. He at least had his wits about him and called you out on it. I, however, wouldn’t have been so polite.  I would have also sicced the dog on you!</p>
<p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> Calm your farm, Claw. No Armies were injured in the making of this chapter. I understand that he is a human with thoughts and feelings, blah-blah-blah. We <em>have</em> been over this.</p>
<p>Also, it was he who took advantage of little old innocent me. Yes, it did cross my mind that I should have at least tried to make a pass at him, but my stunted self-esteem stopped that from happening.  However, I suspect that you would be a total knob-end in person; therefore, your balls would be perfectly safe from my grasping hands.</p>
<p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> Stop being a shit, Bard! You can’t honestly expect us to believe that he would take photographs of his testicles and let you keep them!</p>
<p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> He has done more foolish things than that while stoned. Witness the ‘Ford sucking toes’ video. That is a classic example of the type of fiasco of which he is capable. Poor Fordy will be haunted by that for the rest of his life.</p>
<p>I also think that you’ve forgotten something here. I’m aware that my writing is sooooo ultra-realistic, so let me remind you… this is fiction.</p>
<p>I live on the other side of the world, shocking but true. Australia is one giant prison island, and none of us can leave for the foreseeable future. I won’t be able to get a shot of Armie’s balls, or yours, for that matter, until 2023.</p>
<p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> But, don’t you think that your stories encourage sycophantic fans to hunt and hound him, not to mention his family and friends. How many people will now show up in Twentynine Palms, taking snapshots of everything that moves and hoping to have your experience of hanging out with him?</p>
<p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> Sadly, that is the reality for all stars. Armie handles it better than most, but his form of stardom is a double-edged sword.  On the one hand, he’s subjected to the misdirected ire of fans and being publicly called out by women he has dated. His “friend”, Jess, nastily demonstrated how bitter these attacks can be, hence his need to isolate himself in Joshua Tree National Park.</p>
<p>On the other hand, people like Armie, with tens of thousands of followers have much more influence. Both you and I fall into his promotional traps with products he champions such as… ‘White Claw’. The brands he encourages are just paid advertising. Maybe his “advertising” for Ashton’s motel is gratis, but he certainly knows how to peddle to us. I am happy to play along with his promotions as I usually like the things that he supports, but not all are morally reputable, nor do they show him in the best light.</p>
<p>White Claw is just the ‘Skinny bitch’ cocktail, canned. I could buy a bottle of vodka for the price of four cans in this country. That said, I did find it refreshing, so thanks to Armie and to you for the suggestion.</p>
<p>Also, on the subject of influence, you overestimate mine, but I’m flattered that you believe that anyone pays attention to my rambling. I can assure you that you’re sorely mistaken. I am just one author in a sea of many better ones. Perhaps you should ask them these questions. You never know; you may like their writing on the subject of your balls more than you like mine.</p>
<p>Just let me sit here alone and sob into my beer while I daydream about Armie Hammer’s bits.</p>
<p><strong>WhiteClaw86&gt;</strong> My god, Bardy, you really are a drama queen. Get over yourself, you wanker.</p>
<p><strong>BarkingBard&gt;</strong> How about you come over here and make me! Good luck getting a flight. Oh… and your jetlag will be a real kick in the pants.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter is dedicated to the ever wonderful TimIDinMyHeart. Your generosity knows no bounds and happiest of birthdays matey.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading this piece of meta drivel. I decided to post despite sound advice to the contrary.<br/>That said, this is not an open invitation to hit me up with critiques of my work. Gentle ribbing, fan-person squealing or constructive criticism is always welcome. 98% of the time these stories are an attempt to get something out of my head and let me sleep soundly at night.</p><p>NB: No Armies were harmed in the making of this story. Run and be free, you noble stallion.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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